


The Wisdom to Know the Difference

by nataliaa



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Developing Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Piningjolras, Sexual Tension, Sorry Not Sorry, and then it all devolves into bad porn and disgusting fluff, discussion of religion but not actually religious, i don't know i have no excuses, if that makes sense, priest AU (seriously), very brief references to drugs addiction abuse and suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-25
Updated: 2014-06-25
Packaged: 2018-02-06 05:00:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1845208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nataliaa/pseuds/nataliaa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’m sorry,” says Enjolras. “Were you waiting for confession? I’m free now…”</p><p>The man, who has been comfortably returning Enjolras’ gaze, gives him a crooked grin. “Pretty sure I covered everything for today, Father,” he says, and oh – Enjolras knows that voice.</p><p>“Oh,” he says. “It’s you. You’re you.” He hadn’t realized, until this moment, that he’d formed a picture in his mind of his mystery confessor. He definitely hadn’t realized that he’d hoped the other man was attractive. </p><p>Or: Enjolras is a priest. Grantaire wanders into his confessional. Repeatedly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wisdom to Know the Difference

**Author's Note:**

> Enjolras is a Catholic priest here, so there is fairly extensive discussion of religion, without the work being particularly religious. I'm a queer agnostic who was raised Catholic, and I've tried to be realistic and respectful - a lot of this work was just challenging myself to explore different perspectives. The characters' beliefs are their own, not necessarily mine.
> 
> I own only the typos and the excessive punctuation.

Enjolras is sitting in the confessional booth, fighting yawns and the urge to settle in for a quick nap – after all, his usual crowd of grandparents and devout housewives has already come and gone today. When he hears footsteps approaching, he presses the heels of his palms into his eyes and tries to focus, and then the door on the other side of the confessional slides open. He can see the vague silhouette of the person behind the screen, but nothing more.                                               

After a few moments of silence, Enjolras quietly clears his throat. “Good afternoon,” he says lightly.

The person on the other side sighs. “Good afternoon, Father.” The voice is distinctly male, a slightly rough baritone. He pauses, then continues, “Forgive me, for I have sinned. It has been, uh… probably like 15 years – well, actually closer to 18 - since my last confession. Erm. Whoops. Sorry about that?”

Enjolras bites back a highly inappropriate grin. The Sacrament of Confession really shouldn’t be taken lightly, but he suspects that this will be an unusual one. “The Lord will be happy to hear from you, my brother,” he responds. He tries to maintain what he has come to think of, over the last few years, as his Priest Voice: gentle and warm, but with a certain gravitas. It helps him feel older, too, which he certainly needs; the number of times new parishioners have mistaken him for an altar boy is frankly embarrassing. “Will you confess your sins, so that you may be forgiven?”

“Oh, yeah, of course – I mean, I can try,” the man replies. “It might be, um, a really long list. Like, _really_ long. Maybe I can just tell you the sins I _haven’t_ committed? I don’t steal, as a rule, and I’m really good at not coveting my neighbor’s wife,” he adds dryly.

“Take your time,” Enjolras says, in what he hopes is a soothing manner. “I’ll listen as long as you want me to.”

The man sighs again, “Okay. Sure. Thanks, Father.” Enjolras imagines he can actually hear the man fidgeting in the ensuing silence. “So,” he begins, “I guess it’s pretty obvious that I haven’t been to Mass in a long time. And I take God’s name in vain like, at least twice an hour. I curse a lot, period. Sorry,” he says, almost as an afterthought. “And then there’s drinking and drugs – not any more,” he hastens to add, “I’ve been sober for almost two years now, but since my last confession I’ve definitely done a lot of drugs. Also premarital sex. A lot of that, too? But uh, honestly, any sex I have is going to be premarital, because I’m not really into women. I guess that’s a whole other category of sin right there, regardless of sex.”

He pauses to take a deep breath. “When I lay it all out there like that, it’s sort of clear that I’m pretty much a lost cause, right?” The man sounds increasingly agitated as he continues, “I shouldn’t – I don’t know why I thought – I’m sorry, Father, this is obviously a huge waste of your time. I’ll just go.”

Enjolras has barely had time to process everything that’s just come tumbling out of the man’s mouth when he hears him start to get up and slide open the confessional door.

“Wait!” Enjolras exclaims, definitely too loudly for the silent church. “Wait, please,” he repeats, in the Priest Voice. The other man freezes, and then Enjolras sees his outline move back into the booth.

 _This_ is Enjolras’ vocation, after all – not listening to 70-year-old ladies who want forgiveness for the white lies they tell their grandchildren, or doling out communion to the yuppie families that show up every Sunday like it’s a chore. No, his vocation is people like this man, who have struggled and are reaching out, who are trying to change, trying to become better, and need counsel and guidance.

Enjolras wishes he could tell this particular penitent exactly how much he empathizes.

“Brother,” he says, “we are all sinners, and we are all the children of God. Nothing you have done is beyond His forgiveness.” The words flow off his tongue easily, because this is what Enjolras tells himself every day: God loves you; he loves all his children, as they are and as He made them. He loves everyone.

“Nothing?” comes the scornful reply. “Not even gay sex? Did the Pope have a huge fucking change of heart that I managed to miss?” 

“The Pope is not God,” Enjolras says quietly, for his own benefit as much as the other man’s. “The Pope is a man – a devout, pious man, but still just a man. Even he can’t truly know the heart of God.” It’s good that the church is empty and there’s no one to overhear this conversation; these are the sorts of declarations that get Enjolras in trouble with the monsignor. 

“That’s a nice line. Do you really believe that?” Beneath the sarcasm, there’s something heartbreakingly earnest to the question.

“Yes,” Enjolras replies firmly. “God created us in his image, didn’t he? And God doesn’t make mistakes. We all need to strive for improvement, and work to be better people, but we can’t change our innate qualities and we shouldn’t have to. That’s what I believe.” He’s walking a fine line right now, but he can’t bring himself to care. Individual souls are more important than dogma, as far as Enjolras is concerned, and anyway it’s true: these are his personal convictions.

“Shit, you’re really not a normal priest, are you? Where have you been all my life?”

Enjolras can’t help a small snort of laughter. “I guess I _am_ a little unusual. But I’m still going to give you even more penance if you keep cursing like that. Shall we pray?”

\----------

That night, Enjolras tosses and turns for what feels like hours. Eventually, he gives up on sleep and abandons his bed, moving across the small room to kneel at his prie-dieu.

It’s been a little over a year since he arrived at St. Vincent De Paul Church. It’s a parish that emphasizes service to others, and they’ve been receptive to his ideas for increased community engagement. Although he’s still careful not to give away his more liberal views, especially with his fellow clergy, he suspects that the parishioners would let him get away with just about anything. Many of them – particularly the women – seem so delighted to have a young, charismatic priest that their enthusiasm sometimes verges on alarming. He’s never expected to reform the Church overnight, but he’s cautiously optimistic about the long term.

And yet, in the devout haven of the parish, there’s nobody to challenge him or call him out. He says Mass and hears confessions and staffs soup kitchens, he keeps to his approved priestly script, and nobody knows when he’s being hypocritical. Nobody questions him and nobody questions the Church, which makes it all too easy to bury his doubts and tell himself he has to bide his time for a little longer. Once he’s more established, well known and well respected, then he can start asking the questions that matter.

It’s suddenly very obvious that he’s been making excuses. He’s become complacent. How many people feel just like the man who wandered into his confessional? How many people believe themselves to be broken or evil or irredeemable, because of the teachings of the Church? How much despair and hate are the result of an institution mean to offer hope and love? If Enjolras can believe that God loves him – and he does believe it, with all his heart – then he can find a way to restore the faith of others, too. 

Taking a deep breath, Enjolras closes his eyes, folds his hands, and begins to pray.

\----------

Enjolras is surprised and pleased when the man shows up again the following week. He still doesn’t know his name – or his face, for that matter – but he’d recognize the voice even if the first words out of the man’s mouth weren’t something of a giveaway.

“Hello, Father. I’m afraid I’ve racked up some new sins in the last week. How much time have you got?” 

Somehow they’re still talking half an hour later, and Enjolras has to hurriedly lead him through the Act of Contrition so as not to be late for his turn cooking dinner at the rectory. After the man has left, Enjolras emerges from his side of the confessional wondering how exactly he allowed himself to get so far off-topic. Certainly, the man wasn’t lying when he said he had things to confess, but mostly it was the best theological debate Enjolras has had since seminary – maybe the best, ever. Enjolras had found himself defending his personal spirituality, rather than Church dogma, revealing many of the beliefs he usually discussed so gingerly. It was energizing and liberating, as if _he_ had been the one confessing.

The man comes again the next week, and the week after that, until Enjolras loses track of time and knows only that at some point he began to eagerly await Thursday afternoons. Their conversations have gradually become just that: conversations, rather than confessions. Although the other man remains cynical, easily deconstructing Enjolras’ arguments with pointed objections and questions, Enjolras allows himself to hope that maybe, just maybe, his willingness to engage in spiritual discussions reflects renewed interest and faith in religion. He is careful not to push too hard, but he finds himself pondering their debates throughout the week, carefully formulating his points in order to be at his most persuasive.

An unfortunate side effect of regularly defending his opinions, however, is that as he seeks to convince the other man, Enjolras himself is plagued with doubt for the first time in years. More often than not, the small hours of the night see him at his prie-dieu, rather than in bed, repeating the Serenity Prayer over and over until he can no longer keep his eyes open. Although he’s not an addict, it’s a prayer with which he’s always felt a connection, but its reassuring words can’t always calm him anymore.

\----------

A couple of months after their first meeting, Enjolras and the man are interrupted by a knock on Enjolras’ side of the confessional. “Father Enjolras?” comes a thin voice. “I’ve been waiting quite a long time. Will you hear my confession today?”

When he opens the door, one of his usual little old ladies is standing there, looking quite perplexed, like she’s not quite sure what’s been going on inside the confessional but she can tell it’s not a normal confession.

Enjolras tries not to feel annoyed at having his debate cut short. “Of course, Mrs. Magloire,” he replies. “I’ll be finished with my current penitent in just a moment. I’m sorry you’ve had to wait.”

When he closes the door again, he can’t suppress a sigh. “Sorry about that,” he says.

“No problem,” responds the man. “I’ll just have to finish tearing apart your argument next week. Ten Hail Marys as usual?”

“Yes, that should suffice.” Enjolras grins. “Until next week, then. May the Lord bless you, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, amen. Go in peace, my friend.”

“Amen,” comes the dry reply. “Thanks, Father.”

When Mrs. Magloire has finished confessing and Enjolras emerges a few minutes later, he’s surprised to see a man sitting in one of the nearby pews. His curly black hair is an absolute bird’s nest, and he’s wearing a gray hoodie and paint-stained jeans. When he turns at the sound of Enjolras’ footsteps, he reveals bright green eyes, a nose that’s probably been broken at least twice, and a healthy amount of dark stubble.

“I’m sorry,” says Enjolras. “Were you waiting for confession? I’m free now…”

The man, who has been comfortably returning Enjolras’ gaze, gives him a crooked grin. “Pretty sure I covered everything for today, Father,” he says, and _oh_ – Enjolras knows that voice.

“Oh,” he says. “It’s you. You’re you.” He hadn’t realized, until this moment, that he’d formed a picture in his mind of his mystery confessor. He definitely hadn’t realized that he’d hoped the other man was attractive. And now Enjolras knows: he’s way more attractive than he’d dared to imagine.

The man gives a snort of laughter. “Yeah, I’m me. I guess it’s sort of silly, but I kind of wanted – well, I just felt weird that we’ve talked so much and, you know, I literally wouldn’t have recognized you on the street. I mean, I maybe could have guessed, because how many guys do you see with Roman collars on a daily basis – actually, _you_ probably see a lot of them, so maybe that’s not the right – anyway. I, um, thought I should maybe actually introduce myself before I question your beliefs any more.”

Enjolras is staring and, in an unusual turn of events, completely at a loss for words. “Oh,” he says again.

“You’re a lot more eloquent when you’re anonymous, aren’t you?” the man says wryly.

Enjolras blinks and forces himself to focus. This would be a really useful time for the Priest Voice, but his vocal chords aren’t really cooperating. “I’m sorry,” he says slowly. “You’re right. It’s high time we met properly. I’m Enjolras.”

The other man stands up and holds out his hand. If Enjolras wasn’t having a minor internal meltdown, he’d say the other man almost looked nervous. “I’m Grantaire,” he says, and Enjolras is unexpectedly relieved to have a real name to attach to this person, finally.

They shake. Grantaire’s hand is warm and his grip is firm.

“So, Enjolras? Not Father Enjolras?” Grantaire asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Well, yes, technically,” Enjolras says, gesturing vaguely to his Roman collar. “But outside of formal Church settings, it still seems strange to be addressed as ‘Father’. Enjolras is fine.”

“Cool,” Grantaire says, smiling. “In that case, I’m R, if you want.”

“R, then,” Enjolras agrees, returning the smile as if it’s the easiest thing in the world. He doesn’t usually ask people not to call him “Father” – after all, he spent quite a few years studying to earn that right – although he wasn’t lying about the weirdness he still feels. It’s probably a bad idea, because if anything, the honorific would keep Grantaire at a distance, but Enjolras doesn’t want to push Grantaire away with formalities. They have a rapport that he doesn’t want to disrupt. It’s all in Grantaire’s best interests, really, for the sake of his spiritual rebirth. That’s all.

There’s a slightly awkward moment, during which Enjolras racks his brain for appropriate things to say and Grantaire seems content to grin at him. They usually end things with the Act of Contrition, but Grantaire’s supposed confession is already over, and this is uncharted territory.

“Can I walk you out?” is what he ends up blurting. It’s ridiculous, of course: the church isn’t his house, and Grantaire knows perfectly well where he’s going. But Grantaire nods, and they fall into step next to each other, meandering down the aisle. Enjolras half expects him to jump back into their interrupted argument from earlier; instead, a companionable silence takes them all the way to the door.

“Same time next week?” Grantaire jokes as they part ways – he to the bus stop at the end of the block, Enjolras to the rectory next door.

“Of course,” Enjolras replies. “I’m going to look up that verse you mentioned, so I hope you come prepared.”

Grantaire looks mildly surprised. “Was that a challenge, Father?”  
  
Enjolras works very hard not to blush. “Just a recommendation. Also please try to keep the venial sin at a minimum in the coming week. And I told you, you don’t have to call me ‘Father’.”

“I know,” Grantaire says, grinning and starting to walk away. “See you around!” he calls over his shoulder.

\---------- 

The next Thursday the weather is beautiful, and it finally feels like winter is over. Enjolras takes a chance and asks if Grantaire would like to go outside instead of sitting in the confessional – because even priests aren’t immune to spring fever – and they spend nearly an hour on a bench in the small prayer garden behind the church. 

Speaking face-to-face is both familiar and completely exhilarating. Enjolras learns that Grantaire talks excessively with his hands, and wonders how he ever managed to get any points across unseen in the confessional. He tends to chew his bottom lip when he’s listening or thinking hard, and his sharp eyes focus on Enjolras with an intensity that’s almost unsettling. Enjolras can’t remember ever having someone’s undivided attention like this; Grantaire manages to disagree with him wholeheartedly on almost everything, while simultaneously acting like every word out of Enjolras’ mouth is brilliant and captivating.

It’s the best kind of high, and Enjolras is in a world of trouble.

\----------

Halfway through June, Enjolras gets a phone call from Combeferre, his best friend from seminary who’s currently serving at a church on the other side of the country. They share a lot of radical views, as well as a lot of personal struggles with the Church. Enjolras has desperately missed Combeferre’s conversation and reassurance. Nobody knows him as well as Combeferre does, and he’s never trusted anyone else with his most important secrets. It’s a relief to hear his voice.

Although they try to talk frequently, it’s immediately obvious that this is not one of their usual catch-up chats. Combeferre is the calmest, most straightforward person Enjolras has ever met – he singlehandedly kept Enjolras grounded during seminary, and it’s part of what makes him such a great priest. Today, however, he is audibly anxious.

“Okay,” Enjolras says, after nearly ten minutes of pointless small talk. “What happened?”

 “Right.” Combeferre takes a deep breath. “I’m leaving the priesthood.”

“ _What?_ ”

“I know you heard me, Enjolras,” Combeferre says with a sigh. “And I know if you just take a minute to get over the surprise, you won’t actually be that shocked. We both have quite a few points of contention with the Church as it currently is, and this was always a possibility. I don’t think that priesthood is the right path for me anymore.”

“But – already? We haven’t even started addressing the reforms we always talked about! Change needs to come from _within_ the Church, and there’s so much to do!”

“I know,” Combeferre says quietly. “I know, Enjolras, and I’m sorry to disappoint you. I’ll always support you, and I still want to work for reform. We’re still a team. But my vocation has changed.”

 “What happened, Ferre?” Enjolras asks again. He’s starting to suspect that he already knows the answer.

“I met someone.” Combeferre’s voice is little more than a whisper, but his words are unmistakable. “We fell in love, Enjolras.”

Enjolras can’t breathe. “Someone?” he whispers back.

“The new youth minister at my church,” Combeferre replies.

“ _Combeferre_. You know what I meant.”

Combeferre gives a shaky laugh. “Yeah. His name is Courfeyrac.”

\---------- 

The next time Enjolras sees Grantaire, it’s not at confession. It’s not even at the church. 

It’s at the local LGBT center.

Enjolras admits that the timing isn’t entirely coincidental: between the time he’s been spending with Grantaire and Combeferre’s big announcement, Enjolras has been unsettled lately. He knows that he’s been brooding, even though no amount of introspection will solve his dilemma. Escaping the church bubble seems like the best way to clear his head. Enjolras does a lot of volunteer work anyway, which is perfectly in line with his vocation; it’s not a big deal to add one more organization to his roster, even if his interest is more personal than professional in this case. 

He doesn’t tell the other priests exactly where he’s going, and he tries not to feel guilty about it. He also doesn’t wear his Roman collar. He’s craving a little bit of anonymity, an opportunity to be “Enjolras” and not “Father Enjolras”, and he doesn’t want any unnecessary controversy. It’s not really a big deal, or so he tells himself.

The orientation session for new volunteers is just getting started, with two dozen or so people gathered in a loose circle of chairs, when the door bursts open. “Sorry, sorry!” the latecomer huffs. “Don’t mind me, I’ll just–” He flops down in the last empty chair, across the circle from Enjolras, gesticulating as if to say _please, carry on_. 

They make eye contact, and Grantaire’s eyes widen, then he bites his lip and tentatively tries to smile. Enjolras does his best to maintain a neutral expression when all he actually wants is to bury his face in his hands and curse his awful luck. He’s torn between his usual pleasure at seeing Grantaire, and horror at seeing Grantaire _here_ , where Enjolras is trying to fly below the radar. How is he supposed to get some perspective on the frustrating things Grantaire is making him feel when Grantaire is right there, looking at him like that?

Enjolras smiles back, hoping he is conveying friendliness and not grimacing.

The rest of the group has apparently begun introductions, because the woman next to Grantaire nudges him gently and as he looks away, Enjolras feels like he can breathe again. There’s no need to panic, he decides. Grantaire has no reason to read anything into the fact that Enjolras is suddenly volunteering with LGBT youth and has done away with anything that could identify him as a Catholic priest. Enjolras can come up with a reasonable explanation, no problem.

“… and I’m a freelance artist, mostly,” Grantaire is saying. “I do a little bit of graphic design, too, which is helpful with minor things with paying bills. I’m here because I know what it’s like to be a queer kid and to, um, struggle with a lot of things. I feel like now that I’ve finally made it to a place where I’m healthy and stable, I’d like to give other people the support that I never really had.” Grantaire is blushing a little, eyes flicking between the floor and the ceiling, but his voice is steady, almost like he’s rehearsed the words. “What else was I supposed to say? –Oh, yeah, I’m pretty much gay, but I prefer to identify as queer. Male pronouns are great, thanks.”

It occurs to Enjolras that he had no idea what Grantaire did for a living. They definitely know a lot about each other by this point, but it’s mostly limited to philosophical opinions and positions on organized religion. Enjolras finds that he desperately wants to see Grantaire’s art – or, better yet, to see him creating it.

By the time introductions get around to Enjolras, he’s feeling unreasonably nervous. Everyone else seems so confident in how they identify, in their past experiences, in their ability to help the teenagers who seek out the center’s resources. Enjolras has said these things aloud before, but only ever to Combeferre. He’s understood himself for a long time, but it’s not exactly something you regularly discuss when you are thinking of pursuing a religious vocation, and his feelings on the matter have always been deeply ambivalent.

He takes a deep breath. “I’m Enjolras. I’m a spiritual advisor,” he says, using the most neutral term he could think of without actually lying. “I’m not here to impose my beliefs, I’m just good at listening and helping people talk through whatever is on their mind, so I thought I might be useful.” Enjolras pauses briefly to steel himself before carefully telling his knees, “I’m celibate by choice, but I’m also gay. I use male pronouns.”

The man next to him begins speaking, but Enjolras can’t hear anything except the rush of blood in his ears. His hands are leaving sweaty prints on his jeans, and he feels physically incapable of looking up or moving at all. Somewhere beneath the terror, he feels lighter than he can ever remember, like he didn’t even know that there was a brick in the pit of his stomach, and it just vanished into thin air. He closes his eyes and exhales shakily. He knew, theoretically, that coming out was important, but he realizes now just how drastically everything has changed. Now that he’s said it out loud, now that he’s told an entire room full of people – and _Grantaire_ – he’s unearthed his longest-kept secret, and he’s not sure he can bury it again. He’s not sure he _wants_ to bury it again.

When he finally looks up, of course it’s to find Grantaire gazing at him, thoughtful and concerned. “Okay?” he mouths.

Enjolras nods almost imperceptibly and finds, amazingly, that it’s true: he really is okay. He feels great. He grins at Grantaire, who is visibly relieved.

At the end of the session, Enjolras is pretty sure the prudent thing to do would be to flee before anyone else has gotten out of their seats. Somehow, his legs disagree, and he remains motionless as Grantaire crosses the circle and drops into the newly empty chair next to Enjolras.

“Fancy meeting you here,” Grantaire says with a grin. “Seriously, though,” he adds, “this is not somewhere I expected to see you. At all. And what’s up with the ‘spiritual advisor’ thing?”

Enjolras grimaces. Grantaire is going to work an explanation out of him, whether he likes it or not. “Yeah,” he says vaguely.

Grantaire’s only response is raised eyebrows.

“I’m not here representing the church,” Enjolras says quietly, for only Grantaire to hear. “It’s not a lie, it’s just deliberately ambiguous.”

“Well,” Grantaire says, eyes sparkling, “Blue does suit you a lot better than black, I must admit.”  
  
Enjolras can feel his cheeks heat up, and he tugs self-consciously at the sleeves of his plaid button-down, unable to suppress a small, pleased smile. “I wish I could wear regular clothes more often,” he admits. “I miss colors sometimes.”

The room is clearing out, but neither Enjolras nor Grantaire has made a move to get up. “Do you want to…” Grantaire begins, then tries again. “Do you have to get back? We could like, get coffee or something, if you want.”

Enjolras’ heart skips a beat. “Um, I don’t know, I should probably–”

“Come on,” Grantaire interrupts lightly. “What if I tell you about all of the unacceptable things I’ve done since I last saw you? I’ll come up with a whole list, and you can give me a really intense penance,” he says, grinning cheekily.

The word “intense” coming from Grantaire’s mouth shouldn’t make him blush again, but it does. “Fine,” he says, trying to sound grudging rather than thrilled. “But I’m off-duty right now, so whatever you’ve done, you should probably save it for Thursday.”

Grantaire’s face lights up. “Really? You want to? Great, okay, yeah, I know this place right around the corner, they have the best caramel lattes…” He manages to shepherd Enjolras out the door without actually touching him, all while carrying on a steady stream of babbling about his favorite caffeinated beverages. 

They linger for hours at a corner table, and there’s no pretense of confession or debate about tenets of Catholicism. For the first time, they don’t even argue; the conversation flows easily, covering everything from childhood memories to local restaurants to favorite novels before settling on more personal topics. Grantaire reveals that his drug habits forced him to drop out of art school with one semester left, and that his weekly presence at the church is due to the AA meetings that he attends in the basement. Enjolras cautiously tells Grantaire about Combeferre, about their longstanding friendship and his decision to leave the priesthood.

“Can I ask about that?” Grantaire says when Enjolras has finished explaining. “I don’t want to pry, you can totally say no, but if you’d like to talk about it…” Enjolras nods, and he continues. “I’m not judging at all, but I’m curious – how do you deal with it? I mean, have you always known that you’re gay? Like, before you became a priest? Doesn’t that kind of suck sometimes?”

Grantaire’s bluntness startles a laugh from Enjolras, and any awkwardness over the subject matter disappears.

“It does kind of suck, as you so eloquently put it,” Enjolras admits. “I’ve known… probably since I was fifteen. I think that’s the first time I could articulate, even in my own thoughts, what I was feeling. I already wanted to be a priest, but this was before all the homosexuality scandals in the Church started coming to light, and before gay rights and marriage equality were prominent issues. I honestly had never considered that there might be a conflict of interest there – I just knew that priests couldn’t get married. I didn’t mind because I didn’t want to marry any of the girls I knew anyway,” he adds, grinning.

“But I’ve thought about it a lot, of course, since I was fifteen,” Enjolras continues. He shrugs. “I don’t like feeling that I’m being dishonest with my brothers or my parish, but then, there are a lot of things that I don’t like about current interpretations of Catholicism. I’ve always wanted to be a voice of change, and I figured I’d be more effective reforming the Church from within. I don’t intend to be closeted forever, but I think I need to pick my moment carefully. And in the meantime, I’m trying to be the best example of a true Catholic that I can.”

Grantaire appears to be hanging on his every word, and Enjolras is getting on a roll, so he keeps going. “Priesthood still gives me the opportunity to do a lot of good. I do a lot of volunteering, not just with Catholic causes – um, as evidenced by us running into each other today, clearly. For the most part, I’m free to donate my time and energies as I see fit, as long as it doesn’t interfere with my schedule at Mass or confession or other rites. I’m thinking of starting a blog, possibly under a pseudonym, because Heaven knows the world needs more liberal Catholic voices. Jesus Christ would be _appalled_ by the horrific things that people do in His name, and by the insane misinterpretations of His teachings. Unless you’re reading the New Testament with the express intent of taking verses out of context to support bigotry and discrimination, I fully believe that He really was a radical nonviolent revolutionary and all that. Mother Theresa understood Jesus. Bigots who lay their hatred at His feet? Not so much. I intend to champion progress and reform or die trying.”

Enjolras has never spoken quite so openly or lengthily about his goals (Combeferre excepted, of course), and it’s almost as cathartic as coming out at the volunteer orientation. It’s been quite the afternoon of honest revelations. 

Grantaire is staring at him with something akin to awe. His eyes are bright, his mouth slightly slack, and it’s frighteningly similar to expressions that Enjolras has seen on the faces of the faithful when completely focused in joyful prayer. Enjolras squirms under the scrutiny.

“You,” Grantaire says finally, blinking. “Who even _are_ you? You are the most naïve, ridiculous, amazing person that I’ve ever met. Who actually does that? Who makes crazy sacrifices and devotes their lives to the dream of a better world that may or may not actually happen? How are you _real_?”

“It’s not – _I’m_ not–” Enjolras has never been so embarrassed. He’s blushing violently, with both pleasure at the praise and indignation. “You really shouldn’t–”

“Shhh,” Grantaire interrupts. “It’s a compliment, Enjolras, don’t be ungracious.” He’s been cupping his long-cold latte, and now he reaches toward Enjolras’ hands, folded on the table, and covers them with his own. “You’re amazing,” he repeats.

Enjolras stares at their hands and tries not to hyperventilate. The touch sparked warmth deep in his chest, and Grantaire’s hands are callused and comforting. _Technically_ this doesn’t violate his vow of celibacy, but Enjolras knows that he’s splitting hairs. Celibacy, after all, is not just about abstaining from sex, but about resisting temptation and desire. Enjolras has never desired anyone as much as he does Grantaire. He’s in way over his head, but right now he doesn’t think he could pull away if he tried.

Instead, he somehow ends up doing the opposite of pulling away: he flips his palms upward and grips Grantaire’s hands. “Thank you,” he murmurs. “That means a lot. And you – you’re pretty incredible yourself.” Enjolras knows, now, about Grantaire’s abusive parents, about the older sister who committed suicide when he was sixteen, how he moved out on his own soon after and supported himself with any job he could get. He knows that Grantaire finished high school and got into college through sheer perseverance, only to get consumed by drugs when he started dealing to pay his tuition. And Enjolras knows that Grantaire finally hit bottom and decided to get sober after he almost died on his twenty-eighth birthday. His own theological conflicts are nothing compared to everything that Grantaire has survived, and Enjolras knows it.

It’s Grantaire’s turn to look self-conscious. “Well,” he says regretfully, “It’s kind of late. We probably should…”

He’s right, and Enjolras needs to get back before anyone starts asking uncomfortable questions about his prolonged absence. “Yeah, we probably should,” he affirms.

Grantaire lets go of his hands to grab his jacket, and Enjolras immediately misses the contact. Come to think of it, the last person he really touched was his mother. Shaking hands during the sign of peace definitely doesn’t count.

The back of Grantaire’s hand brushes Enjolras’ several times as they walk out of the café shoulder to shoulder, and Enjolras wishes he could reach out and hold it. He resists.

There’s a moment, when they reach Grantaire’s bus stop, where they just look at each other, and then Grantaire mumbles, “Can I?” before reaching out and wrapping his arms around Enjolras. After a moment, Enjolras finds himself melting into the embrace with a soft sigh, bringing his arms up around Grantaire’s back.

After a long moment, Grantaire squeezes him gently and pulls away to meet his eyes. “Sorry – was that okay?”

“It was really nice,” says Enjolras truthfully. “Priests don’t get a lot of hugs, as it turns out.”

“I guess not,” responds Grantaire. He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes anymore. If they had let themselves pretend, for a minute, that they were just two guys getting coffee and flirting tentatively, Enjolras’ comment has reminded them of everything that is off-limits.

“Thanks for today,” Enjolras says. “I needed – I don’t know, a break, I guess. I needed _this_. Sorry if I commandeered your whole afternoon.”

Grantaire’s smile is a little more sincere this time. “Not at all. I had a great time. Maybe too great,” he adds under his breath, so quietly that Enjolras isn’t entirely sure he heard right. “Thursday?”

“You know where to find me,” Enjolras agrees.

\----------

Thursday is oppressively hot, but Enjolras and Grantaire go outside anyway. Enjolras can feel beads of sweat sliding down his back under his black shirt, but his hands are sweating for entirely non-heat-related reasons. He’s been distracted for days, ever since they had coffee together; it’s a good thing he hasn’t had any marriages or funerals, because he’s been fumbling regular church services enough as it is. He’s pretty sure he hasn’t stopped thinking about Grantaire the whole time, except perhaps during his few hours of exhausted sleep, but he still doesn’t know what to do.

Grantaire looks just as weary as Enjolras feels. He’s paler than usual, and there are dark purple circles under his eyes. He gives Enjolras a cheeky smile, though, and launches into a debate before Enjolras has time to feel awkward.

The hot air is heavy and humid, and they eagerly sink onto the first bench they reach in the garden. Nobody else is insane enough to be outside, and it’s silent except for a few buzzing cicadas and the distant complementary hums of air conditioners.

Enjolras slowly realizes that Grantaire has finished talking, and is looking at him expectantly. He blinks sweat out of his eyes and tries to remember what Grantaire was saying. He has no idea what it could have been about.

Grantaire huffs a brief laugh as Enjolras stares blankly at him. “Never mind,” he says pleasantly. “It wasn’t important, and I feel like I’m literally going to melt.” He wipes a drop of sweat off his nose. “We can argue next time.”

“Thanks,” Enjolras sighs. “And sorry. I can’t even–” He waves his hands in a way that hopefully conveys his complete inability to articulate anything today. “Wearing black all summer is my least favorite thing about the priesthood,” he adds, in an attempt at an explanation.

“Your least favorite thing?” Grantaire repeats, raising an eyebrow.

Enjolras is suddenly very grateful for the ridiculous temperature, because his face is already so flushed that it can’t possibly get any pinker.

“One of my least favorite things,” he amends, meeting Grantaire’s gaze. And oh, wow, the heat really must be messing with his head, because he and Grantaire are very close, and he doesn’t quite know how that happened.

Grantaire’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly, and at this distance Enjolras can see that the green fades into thin brown rings around his pupils, which are almost completely dilated despite the bright afternoon sun. Grantaire swallows audibly, and his Adam’s apple bobs in Enjolras’ peripheral vision.

Enjolras’ heart is racing, he’s trembling all over, and he inhales sharply when Grantaire reaches up and gently brushes a damp blond curl out of Enjolras’ face. Grantaire is shaking, too.

“This would be a good time to tell me to stop,” Grantaire whispers, and his breath ghosts across Enjolras’ face. Enjolras shivers and doesn’t move. “Please, just tell me to stop,” Grantaire repeats.

Enjolras can’t speak, but he knows he wouldn’t ask Grantaire to stop even if he could find his voice. He leans forward ever so slightly, tilts his head, and presses his lips to Grantaire’s.

Grantaire doesn’t hesitate; his raised hand cups Enjolras’ cheek, and he kisses back.

This isn’t exactly Enjolras’ first kiss – there were some hapless encounters with girls in high school, and one short-lived dalliance with a boy who lived on his hall in college – but it’s been almost ten years since he’s even considered anyone else romantically, let alone acted on those impulses. And nothing before ever came close to kissing Grantaire.

Enjolras has his hands planted on Grantaire’s hips, thumbs pressing into his firm obliques, and when Grantaire bites gently on his lower lip, Enjolras lets his mouth fall open with a sigh. Grantaire’s stubble is scratchy, and his lips are chapped, hot and eager against Enjolras’. Grantaire runs a hand through Enjolras’ hair, and Enjolras makes a low, strangled sound. They both freeze.

After a long moment, Enjolras pulls away and they both drop their hands.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” Grantaire says, more repentant than he’s ever been during confession. “I know. _Shit_. But – I didn’t completely misinterpret everything, did I?”

Enjolras shakes his head, not trusting his voice. He can’t bring himself to look at Grantaire. “No,” he says finally, unsteadily. “It’s not your fault. I – I misled you, I let this keep going when I shouldn’t – _I’m_ sorry. I should have known better.” His thoughts are a whirl, his head is spinning, and he hardly knows what he’s saying, but he knows that Grantaire can’t blame himself when Enjolras himself strolled happily straight down the path of temptation. He doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know what’s right anymore, and he’s never going to figure it out with Grantaire sitting _right there_ , close enough to kiss again.

“R,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry. I need to go.” Enjolras pushes himself to his feet with his last bit of willpower, and finally risks a glance at Grantaire’s face. The other man is slouched where he still sits, radiating defeat and resignation. “You deserve so much better,” Enjolras tells him sadly. When he turns around and leaves the garden, fighting the urge to look back, it’s hard to say whether the wetness on his face is sweat or tears.

\----------

After a long night of whirling thoughts, Enjolras is still awake to see the sky slowly turning gray, then pink, and finally pale blue. As soon as it seems like a reasonable hour, he calls Combeferre.

“Enj?” Combeferre mumbles, voice heavy with sleep.

“Oh no, sorry – did I wake you?” Enjolras winces. Combeferre has always been an early riser, but apparently Enjolras overshot it today.

“No, no, it’s fine,” Combeferre replies, sounding slightly more alert although his voice is still hushed. “Just – hang on one second, okay?” There’s some rustling, and the sound of Combeferre breathing, and a click that might be a door closing. “Hi,” he says after a minute, at a more natural volume. “Sorry about that.”

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” Enjolras says. “I thought you’d be up.”

“Slightly different routine these days,” Combeferre murmurs.

 _Oh._ “Were you with – you were – oh, I’m really sorry, Ferre.” Enjolras can feel himself blushing.

“It’s really not a problem, Enjolras. He can sleep through pretty much anything, and anyway I’m in the living room now. What’s up?”

Enjolras sighs. Picturing his best friend’s new domestic life is not helping him gain perspective on the Grantaire dilemma. “I don’t know where to start,” he admits.

“Take your time,” Combeferre says gently, and this is why he’s Enjolras’ best friend.

“I feel like I’m at confession,” Enjolras tells him.

“Do you want me to give you penance?” Combeferre asks, half serious.

“I kissed someone,” Enjolras blurts, and then it’s like a tidal wave. “Or he kissed me. I don’t know who started it, technically, but it was definitely mutual. I had been thinking about it – about _him_ – for months. He’s… I don’t know, he’s just amazing. He started coming to confession this spring, and we have these insane debates, and I feel like I’m actually going to explode when I’m around him. In a good way, for the most part. I don’t know what to do, Ferre. I never thought this would happen to me. I never _wanted_ this to happen.”

Combeferre gives a soft huff of laughter. “You don’t really get a choice in these things, Enj. It’s one of very few things that you can’t actually control through sheer willpower.”

“But I have a _plan_. This isn’t part of it,” Enjolras protests weakly, recognizing how absurd he sounds even as he speaks.

“Plans can change,” Combeferre responds. “Do you want to change yours?”

“I don’t know, I have no idea,” Enjolras groans. “I don’t know what I want anymore. I can’t even _think_ clearly about it.”

“How long has it been? Since the kiss?”

“Um. Yesterday.”

“Wow, okay, Enjolras, you’re entitled to take some time here. You don’t have to decide anything today, or even tomorrow. This is important – believe me, I know – and you’re can think about it for as long as you need to.”

Enjolras sighs, realizing that he’s been doing that a lot lately. “How did you know what to do?” he asks quietly.

There’s a long silence, and Enjolras is starting to worry that the call was dropped, but then he hears Combeferre let out a long breath. “Ultimately, it wasn’t much of a decision,” he says. “I couldn’t rationalize away what I was feeling. It took me a while, and Courfeyrac was _very_ patient, but I think I always knew what I had to do.”

“Are you happy, Ferre?” Enjolras is practically whispering now, almost afraid to hear Combeferre’s answer.

“Yeah, I am,” Combeferre says simply. “I’ve never been happier. I know you want to save the world, Enjolras – _no_ , don’t you dare interrupt, we both know it’s true – but you don’t _actually_ need to be Mother Theresa. You need to take care of yourself, and you need to make yourself happy first.”

“Yeah,” Enjolras allows. “I know.”

“Take your time, okay? – Wait, hold on.” Combeferre apparently puts his hand over the phone, based on the muffling, but Enjolras can hear another voice and some suspicious wet sounds. He tries not to think about what Combeferre is doing, but his stomach flips anyway.

“Sorry,” Combeferre says a minute later, sounding slightly dazed and not sorry at all. “Courf just got up.”  
  
“I could have guessed,” Enjolras says dryly. “Um – tell him hello for me? And – and that I hope to meet him soon.”

“I will, thanks,” Combeferre replies in surprise. “I hope so, too. Call me anytime, okay? And don’t be too hard on yourself, Enj – that’s not fair and you know it.”

\---------- 

Enjolras changes his confession schedule, and spends Thursday afternoon in his room reading. He ends up stuck on the same sentence while he tries not to wonder whether Grantaire showed up for confession, or whether they’re avoiding each other equally. They don’t cross paths at the LGBT community center, either, and although Enjolras is completely on edge the first few times he shows up to mentor, it quickly becomes the high point of his weeks. It’s like hearing confessions, but without the Catholic guilt; Enjolras thrives with the opportunity to be so open with kids who actually want to talk to him. 

He does start a blog, part personal musings and part theological considerations, and after gaining an unexpected number of readers in a short period, finds himself devoting more and more attention to his blog posts. In turn, his more radical ideas begin to infiltrate his homilies almost without him realizing. His parishioners seem receptive, and Enjolras congratulates himself on successfully channeling his energy to productive outlets.

Then he starts imagining Grantaire everywhere. He spots heads of wild, dark hair at the back of the sanctuary while he’s saying Mass, and catches glimpses of men in faded hoodies and paint-splattered jeans on the other side of the street. Sometimes he thinks he hears a familiar rough voice, but it’s never Grantaire.

His insomnia returns with a vengeance. It doesn’t matter how busy he keeps or how exhausted he is by evening, he lies awake. His head spins as he pictures Combeferre’s new life with Courfeyrac, their lazy Saturday mornings and the dinners they might cook together, how they could cuddle on their sofa and talk about their days. And then, somehow, his imagination always morphs the scenes into him and Grantaire: Grantaire is sketching while Enjolras reads with his feet in his lap, occasionally mentioning something that will draw them into a heated debate, and they’ll argue until Grantaire leans over kisses him to shut him up. Enjolras lets him, sinking his fingers into Grantaire’s hair, allowing Grantaire to push him down onto the sofa, their hands wandering and their bodies pressed together in a perfect fit– 

Enjolras never lets himself get farther than this, but it gets more difficult to interrupt the fantasy every time. When he does pull himself back to the present, he’s always painfully hard, alone in his small, sparse rectory bedroom.

\----------

Enjolras calls Combeferre again. “You were right,” he says in lieu of a greeting.

“Of course I was,” Combeferre replies cheerfully. “What, exactly, was I right about this time?”

 “I can’t stop thinking about him,” says Enjolras. “I’ve tried. It’s not working. I need to tell him.”

“I understand,” says Combeferre. “I’m proud of you, Enjolras.”

“Thanks,” Enjolras murmurs. “Now I just have to _find_ him.”

\----------

Enjolras doesn’t have Grantaire’s phone number. He doesn’t know where he lives. He doesn’t even know Grantaire’s last name. All he knows is that Grantaire might still volunteer at the LGBT center, and that he used to attend AA meetings at his church on Thursday evenings. Loitering around a place where vulnerable teens come and go does not strike Enjolras as a good idea, so AA it is.

Waiting right outside of the AA meeting also seems inappropriate, to say nothing of crashing the meeting itself, which means Enjolras ends up waiting at Grantaire’s bus stop. He’s early – it’s still at least half an hour before Grantaire used to come to confession – and it’s unusually cold for October. He spent hours fretting over what to wear, and eventually settled on street clothes, but is starting to regret not grabbing a jacket.

The extra time gives him the chance to run through what he’s going to say – run through it over and over again, obsessively, in a very not-healthy way. He woke at the crack of dawn, heart pounding and fighting nervous stomach nausea, so it’s not like he hasn’t thought about how to go about this. He’s practically written a speech, laying out point after point to justify his decisions and ensure that Grantaire will react favorably. He knows _exactly_ what he wants to say, every word and every inflection.

It all instantly vanishes from his brain the second he spots a familiar figure exit the church. Grantaire’s still a ways away, and he hasn’t seen Enjolras – probably because he’s not scrutinizing the person at the end of the block, probably because he doesn’t expect to see Enjolras ever again, and Enjolras doesn’t blame him.

And then, after what is probably less than a minute but feels like an actual eternity, Enjolras knows that Grantaire has looked up because he stops abruptly. There’s maybe a hundred feet between them, so Enjolras can’t hear him, but he sees Grantaire shake his head slightly, and then his shoulders rise and fall like he’s just taken a deep breath. Slowly, he resumes walking.

“Hi,” says Enjolras as soon as Grantaire is close enough. “I’m glad I caught you. I wasn’t sure you were still coming here.”

Grantaire snorts. “Don’t flatter yourself. I wouldn’t interfere with my recovery over you.”

“No! I didn’t mean…” This is not at all what Enjolras planned, and they haven’t even exchanged greetings yet.

Grantaire cracks a grin that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Don’t worry, Father. I know.”

“Um,” says Enjolras.

“Articulate as ever, I see.”

“It’s just… You probably shouldn’t call me that.” Enjolras is completely off book and this is _not_ how it was supposed to go.

“You’ve told me that before, you know. But – I think it’s best to remember what you are. I need to remind myself.” Grantaire is looking pointedly to the left of Enjolras’ head, and his jaw is tense.

“That’s not exactly the reason,” Enjolras tries to explain, taking a step forward. He tries not to let it bother him when Grantaire flinches back ever so slightly. “I meant that I’m not – or at least, soon I won’t be – I requested laicization.”

Grantaire stares. “You did _what_ now?”

“It means I asked to be dismissed from the clergy–”

“Oh my God – shit, sorry – sorry again – no, I was raised Catholic, I _know_ what laicization is, but you did _what? Why would you do that?”_

“Are you serious?” Enjolras snaps. He has no reason to be angry at Grantaire – he really shouldn’t be angry at all right now – but his plan is shot and for some reason Grantaire is acting really thick and does Enjolras have to spell everything out? 

“I am _wild_ ,” Grantaire spits back.

Enjolras just glares. “Why do you _think_ I want to be laicized? What reason could I _possibly_ have for deciding that everything I thought I knew and wanted is completely wrong? That I’ve been wasting my time for _years_ now in a system that doesn’t want to change? I was _fine_ , I had a _plan_ , I knew _exactly_ what I was going to do, and then _you_ just waltz into my confessional with your profanity and your antagonism and that ridiculous mess of hair and your stupid lips and you just had to _ruin everything!_ How could I have ignored you and just carried on? How could _anyone_ ignore you? You are simultaneously the worst and the best thing that has ever happened to me and you have no idea how insane I’ve been going and all I want–”

Enjolras is shouting right in Grantaire’s shell-shocked face and clenching the lapels of his coat. He grunts in frustration and lets go, inhaling deeply to try and slow his racing heartbeat. “All I want…” he repeats. How was he going to do this? What was he going to say? Whatever it was, Enjolras has completely forgotten.

Instead, he surges forward and catches Grantaire’s lips, hot and soft, with his own, chilly from waiting outside. For a moment they stay like that, motionless, touching only at their lips. Then Grantaire pulls away.

“What the fuck.” Grantaire doesn’t give it the inflection of a question, and there’s no longer anger or outrage in his voice. He just sounds disbelieving.

Enjolras finally finds his voice. “I love you,” he whispers.

“What _the actual_ fuck,” Grantaire says, scrubbing his hands over his face and then running them through his unruly hair. “You can’t just _do_ this, Enjolras.”

“I _love_ you,” Enjolras says more loudly. “I’ve been so lonely, and sad, and _frustrated_. I still want to change the Church, but I don’t want to be alone while I do it. I want to be with _you_.”

“You’re insane.”  
  
“You’re not the first one to tell me so,” Enjolras replies dryly.

Grantaire’s eyes crinkle like he’s fighting a smile. It’s progress.

“Can we at least talk about it now?” Enjolras asks. 

Grantaire rubs at his eyes, then finally looks at Enjolras. “It’s been _months_. We have the most amazing fucking kiss of my entire fucking life, and then you just _disappear_ because, that’s right, you’re a fucking _priest_. And now you want to _talk_ about how you’ve decided to leave the priesthood to be with me?” He lets out a bark of laughter. “What the fuck,” he mutters again.

“It’s not just to be with you,” Enjolras says, “if that makes it any easier. It’s definitely _because_ of you, but it’s because you made me realize that being a priest wasn’t working. I wasn’t an agent of change; I was part of the system. I was isolated, and lying to everyone, including myself, frankly. You called me out on _everything_. I promise you this hasn’t been an easy decision, but it became pretty clear that I was doing everything wrong. I wasn’t making progress on my goals, I wasn’t making myself happy, and I’m fairly certain I wasn’t making _you_ happy. Being a priest isn’t my vocation anymore. Maybe it never was my true vocation.”

Grantaire has listened to Enjolras’ entire speech with his hands shoved in his pockets, pointedly avoiding eye contact. When Enjolras falls silent, Grantaire looks up and catches his gaze, holding it determinedly. It feels like a staring contest.

“Are you sure?” Grantaire asks, low and intent. “Really, _really_ sure?”

“ _Yes_ ,” breathes Enjolras, trying to convey in that one word how very sure he is.

Grantaire spreads a palm out over the front of his chest, and his warmth seeps through Enjolras’ thin shirt. He shivers almost imperceptibly. Grantaire leans forward until his nose almost, but not quite, brushes Enjolras’ and it’s all Enjolras can do not to close those last few centimeters between them.

“I need you to be sure, Enjolras,” Grantaire murmurs. Enjolras feels the words more than he hears them. “I’ve been in love with you from the moment I met you – _really_ met you – and I was _this_ close to getting over you. It _will_ break my heart if you change your mind.”

“I’m not going to change my mind,” Enjolras promises.

Grantaire’s palm tightens into a fist around the fabric of Enjolras’ shirt, and Enjolras lets himself be pulled forward. When their lips meet, Enjolras’ breath is knocked from him in a sigh that goes straight into Grantaire’s open mouth. Their arms wind around each other, hands gripping tight, and Enjolras finds himself backed against the bus shelter. The metal is cold against his back, but Grantaire is so hot against his front that he barely notices.

This time when one of them moans softly – Enjolras couldn’t say which of them it is – they don’t jump apart. Enjolras pushes closer, trails kisses up Grantaire’s neck until his lips reach his ear. “How far away is your apartment?” he whispers, biting Grantaire’s earlobe.

Grantaire shudders and groans. “Too far. I’m going to die before we get there.”

Enjolras can feel how hard Grantaire is, so that’s probably not an exaggeration. Enjolras is just as desperate. Suddenly, he has an idea. “Want to go somewhere closer?”

Grantaire just sighs. “ _Anywhere_.”

\----------

“Jesus fucking _Christ_ , Enjolras – I know, sorry, whatever – are you for real? I know you said you’re quitting the priest thing, but are you sure you’re not actually, like, possessed or something?”

“Are you complaining?” Enjolras growls, pulling the confessional door closed behind them. It’s a tight fit, and he’s pretty much in Grantaire’s lap. _He_ certainly isn’t complaining.

“ _No_ , fuck no, I just – I’m surprised? That you think this is okay? I didn’t really expect you to have a kink for semi-public sex or, you know, sex in a _church–”_

“Shhhh,” Enjolras hisses, trying to figure out the best way to get their pants off without banging his head, elbows, or knees on the confessional. It requires a certain amount of concentration.

“I actually didn’t expect you to want to have sex _at all_ – I mean, not so soon, when we’ve only just–”

“ _Grantaire_.” Enjolras stops and looks him in the eye, and Grantaire freezes with his mouth wide open. He’s slouched back on the wooden bench, legs spread around Enjolras, fly undone but boxers still covering him. His eyes are bright, even in the dim light, and his chest is heaving.

Enjolras braces his hands on Grantaire’s broad shoulders and leans down to nip at his bottom lip. “I’m not terribly experienced, but I’m not a virgin, and I’ve been thinking about this for an infuriatingly long time now.” The confession schedule’s been rearranged, and evening Mass isn’t for another hour, so the church is empty. If Enjolras took a moment to consider the prudence of what they’re about to do, he might think better of it. As it is, he’s not willing to think about anything except how badly he wants to take off Grantaire’s clothes. He doesn’t intend to get caught, but even then, what would they do? Laicize him? As far as the Church is concerned, he has nothing to lose.

“It _has_ been a while, though,” Enjolras admits, “So we probably shouldn’t start with…” He trails off, suddenly wondering if he’s being too forward, too presumptive of Grantaire’s desires.

Grantaire seems to read his mind. “Hey,” he says with a grin. “I’m totally, inexpressibly happy with whatever the fuck we do right now. Pun absolutely intended. Why don’t you just – here.” He grabs Enjolras under the ass and somehow maneuvers them so that Enjolras is in his lap, thighs around Grantaire’s waist. Grantaire keeps one hand on Enjolras and uses the other to push down his pants and boxers, revealing his hard, flushed cock. He pulls himself out, too, then hauls Enjolras in so they come together. The friction when their cocks meet sends sparks through Enjolras’ entire body, and he buries his face in Grantaire’s hair. Grantaire spits on his hand and begins to stroke them both together.

“Oh… _oh_ , Grantaire, that’s _amazing_ , how are you doing that, oh God, Jesus, fuck – _hmmmm_ – sorry, oh, _yes,_ do that again, _God–_ ”

“Look who won’t shut up now,” Grantaire mumbles as he increases his pace. Tilting his head up, he pulls Enjolras into a kiss that’s mostly an uncoordinated clashing of mouths, both of them breathing harshly and muttering increasingly desperate and incoherent nonsense at each other when they part for air.

Enjolras comes first, panting and trembling and seeing stars, until he slumps, boneless, over Grantaire’s shoulder. Seconds later, Grantaire moans, “ _Enjolras_ ,” and goes slack. He manhandles Enjolras off of him until they’re both sitting on the bench, squeezed in and pressed together from hip to shoulder.

“So,” Grantaire says conversationally when his breathing has started to even out. “You get pretty filthy when you’re aroused, eh?”

Enjolras groans and turns to bury his face in Grantaire’s shoulder. “I couldn’t help it,” he says, voice muffled. “You – just, _you_.” 

Grantaire runs his fingers through Enjolras’ hair and grins. “You’re not bad yourself, you know.”

Enjolras raises his head, face suddenly serious. “I love you, Grantaire.” He kisses Grantaire fiercely, leaving them both breathless all over again.

“And I love–”

They freeze at the distinct sound of approaching footsteps.

“I thought you said no one would be here for another hour!” Grantaire hisses.

Enjolras has gone very pale. “Yeah, well, that was what I thought…”

The door on the other side of the confessional opens and a silhouette appears on the other side. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” comes a high voice. “It has been one week since my last confession. 

Enjolras can’t move. He can hardly breathe. He certainly can’t remember what to say in response, or wonder why such a devoted confessor is here when there’s not supposed to be a priest on duty today. He’s hyper-aware of Grantaire’s body pressed against his, of the fact that they are both sticky with sweat and cum.

Grantaire’s hand gently covers Enjolras’ mouth, and he begins to speak. “Welcome, sister,” he intones, voice deep and authoritative. “God bless you, in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Sprit. Amen.”

“Amen,” comes the response from the other side.

“Tell me your sins and unburden your heart,” Grantaire instructs calmly.

Enjolras gapes at him. Grantaire just winks and mimes complete focus on the recitation of minor transgressions coming from behind the screen.

When their wayward penitent has gone, when her footsteps have faded into silence and Enjolras allows himself to breathe again, he immediately bursts into hysterical laughter. Grantaire smirks, then shuts him up with a kiss.

\----------

It’s a minor miracle that they make it out of the church, onto a bus, and into Grantaire’s apartment without further incident. Enjolras is pretty sure that it’s very obvious what they’ve been doing, between their mussed hair and disheveled clothes, not to mention the way that they can’t stop touching each other. Enjolras knows it’s inappropriate, and normally he’d feel intensely uncomfortable with so much public affection, but he can’t actually bring himself to care at all. Touching Grantaire feels _so good_ , and now that he’s let himself do it, he never wants to stop. He’s missed human contact, the feeling of connection and companionship that it brings. They curl up together on the bus, fingers tangled together, Grantaire with an arm around Enjolras and Enjolras with his head pushed into Grantaire’s shoulder. They almost fall asleep and miss their stop; Grantaire has to push Enjolras out of the seat and drag him to the door so they can squeeze off the bus just before it pulls away and stumble off, breathless, towards Grantaire’s building.

After they’ve showered, kissing languidly under the steaming water and gently washing away evidence of their earlier activities, they fall into Grantaire’s bed, naked and warm. Their bodies curve together instinctively, chest to back, chin to shoulder, legs interlaced.

“I meant to say, earlier, before we were so rudely interrupted,” Grantaire whispers, mouth next to Enjolras’ ear. “I love you, too, Enjolras.”

Enjolras hums at the pleasant tingle Grantaire’s words send through him.

“Can you stay?” Grantaire asks.

“Yeah,” Enjolras murmurs, tightening his grip on Grantaire’s hands. “You couldn’t kick me out if you tried.”

He falls asleep to the sound of even breaths and to the feeling of another heart steadily beating.

\----------

“There they are!” Enjolras can’t keep the excitement out of his voice when he spots Combeferre at the end of the hallway, making his way out of the gate area and toward the baggage claim.

“Which one’s Combeferre?” Grantaire asks, squeezing Enjolras’ hand lightly.

“The one with the glasses,” Enjolras replies. “And that must be Courfeyrac with him.” There’s a lanky brunet brushing shoulders with Ferre, with hair almost as wild as Grantaire’s and a wide smile they can see even at a distance.

“Friends! Hello!” Courfeyrac shouts as they approach, while Combeferre grins and gives a small wave.

As soon as they’re past security, Combeferre puts down his carry-on and Enjolras walks straight into his arms.

“It is _so_ unbelievably good to see you,” Enjolras says.

Combeferre squeezes him tight. “I missed you, too, Enj.”

Courfeyrac and Grantaire have been trading loud, enthusiastic greetings and increasingly elaborate handshakes.

“So that’s Courfeyrac, huh?” Enjolras asks. “Hmmm.”

“You’re going to love him,” Combeferre replies, more statement of fact than hopeful promise. “I love Grantaire already. You look happy.” 

Enjolras has been grinning like a loon since he spotted Combeferre, so happy might be an understatement of the obvious, but he knows Combeferre means more than that. Combeferre is right. They _all_ look happy.

When Combeferre and Enjolras show no sign of moving, Grantaire taps Enjolras on the shoulder. “Do I get to meet him, too?” he asks wryly.

Enjolras reluctantly pulls away from Combeferre, only to be instantly swept up in Courfeyrac’s bear hug. “The famous Enjolras!” Courfeyrac exclaims. “At long last! It’s only right that we should finally meet, considering the number of private and awkward things I know about you – kidding, kidding! Mostly,” he adds hastily, seeing Enjolras side-eyeing him. “It’s actually only inconceivably great things. Ferre might love you more than he does me. It was hard not to be a little jealous – I’m only human, you know. But seeing you with that guy–” he nods toward Grantaire “–is a serious relief. It’s very obvious that you’re not in love with my boyfriend, and I mean that in the best possible way.”

Courfeyrac is as outgoing as Combeferre is reserved, and Enjolras has no trouble seeing that they complement each other perfectly. He keeps one ear on Courfeyrac’s monologue, and one eye on Combeferre and Grantaire, who appear to be making polite small talk but are quite clearly sizing each other up.

Enjolras grins at Courfeyrac and attempts to extricate himself from his long limbs. “I am most definitely not in love with Combeferre, rest assured,” he says, stepping back and literally holding Courfeyrac at arm’s length to look him in the eye. “I _am_ , in fact, ridiculously in love with my own boyfriend.”

An arm snakes around Enjolras’ stomach from behind. “I hope you’re talking about me,” Grantaire remarks, resting his chin on Enjolras’ shoulder.

Enjolras rolls his eyes and twists around to kiss him.

As the four of them leave the airport, Enjolras and Grantaire hand in hand, and Courfeyrac with an arm slung around Combeferre’s waist, Enjolras catches Combeferre’s eye and grins. It’s possible that Combeferre holds out a fist and Enjolras bumps it victoriously, but Enjolras will never admit to it.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! This is the longest fic I've ever written, and could definitely still use some work, but I needed to just post it before I lost too much steam.
> 
> 1) I think this came from an deliberately over-literal interpretation of E as "prêtre de l'idéal"? I don't know, it just happened.
> 
> 2) The title is from the Serenity prayer, which seemed relevant to E's personal struggles. I personally feel like it's a pretty solid mantra for anyone, addict or not, religious or secular.
> 
> 3) E references a quote about Jesus that, as far as I can tell, is originally by John Fugelsang: "Jesus was a radical nonviolent revolutionary who hung around with lepers hookers and crooks; wasn't American and never spoke English; was anti-wealth anti-death penalty anti-public prayer (M 6:5); but was never anti-gay, never mentioned abortion or birth control, never called the poor lazy, never justified torture, never fought for tax cuts for the wealthiest Nazarenes, never asked a leper for a copay; and was a long-haired brown-skinned homeless community-organizing anti-slut-shaming Middle Eastern Jew."


End file.
